Close to Home
by evienne
Summary: For once, it's not Jack who's being irrational. Featuring the flu, lots of poor communication, David losing his temper, and a solution. Gen.


**A/N: **Not mine, not making any money. :) X-posted to AO3.

* * *

"Look who finally showed up!" Blink sang out, and Jack glanced around to see David walk in through the gates just as the very last newsie was collecting his papes. "We was just thinkin' you'd decided to skive off work today. Where's Les?"

"He's sick," David said, joining them.

He'd spoken rather tersely, and Jack eyed him while he passed over David's half of the papes. David didn't look wholly awake, and he wasn't as tidy as he ordinarily was: today his shirt had wrinkles and his tie was badly done. "Real sick?" Jack probed.

David shrugged, not meeting his eyes.

"Poor kid," Mush said. "Flu?" At David's nod, Mush made a sympathetic noise. "Early in the season for it, but I reckons it's startin' up at the Lodging House too."

"We'll all have had it by the time winter's over," Blink said with the cheerful unconcern of somebody who had shared the various diseases that plagued the Lodging House for eight years. "Mighty unpleasant for Les, but just think about all the fun he'll have with a _real_ cough to sell with next week, huh, Davey?" David smiled tightly, and Blink patted his shoulder before tugging Mush away to investigate the headlines. "C'mon, looks like there's a juicy one today—"

David made as if to follow them out, but Jack caught his sleeve and held him back. "Everything okay?" he asked in a low voice.

"Fine."

"How bad is Les?"

"I said it's fine, Jack," David said with a touch of impatience, pulling away.

Jack frowned, but let him go.

It was an unusually good headline today: the Molineux trial had just begun, and the papes were full of delicious words like _cyanide _and _murder_ and _the accused_. Jack, forgetting about David with such material to work with, cheerfully butchered the difficult name every time he pronounced it, which won several laughs and good-natured purchases. He sold his half without any trouble well before the Tribune clock showed ten o'clock, and went in search of David. It took longer than expected; he had to go all the way back to the top of Park Row before he found him, still carrying what looked like an almost intact pile.

"Hey," Jack said, frowning as he reached for David's papes and split them in half again. He tucked his portion beneath his arm, studying his friend curiously. "You don't even gotta improve_ these_ headlines to sell 'em, Dave. What's the matter?"

"Sorry," David said, looking irritated with himself. "I didn't sleep well last night."

"No kidding." Jack eyed the dark circles around David's eyes. "You ain't comin' down with the flu too, is you?"

"No," David said. "It's fine, Jack. I'm awake now: I'll do better."

Jack watched him walk away, doubtfully, but David was good as his word. He was never going to be a spectacular newsie in the typical way, yet over the months since the strike, he'd developed his own kind of draw—a sort of honest-to-goodness earnestness that went down very well with dignified-looking ladies and men who carried briefcases. Jack sold to people who were amused by him; David sold to people who_ liked_ him, and he was good at getting people to like him when he tried. Today's headline might suit Jack's type of marketing better, but now that David was putting his mind to it, they ended up moving their last papes at nearly the same time.

"I'm going to go home for a bit," David said when they met up again. He looked a bit more cheerful now, which Jack found reassuring. "I'll meet you when it's time for the afternoon pape."

"You want me to come?"

David looked undecided, but shook his head at last. "Thanks. It's fine. I just promised I'd read Les a story."

"All right," Jack said, feeling uncertain. "You tell him hi from me."

But when David returned to pick up the _Evening World_, any good humor he'd picked up over the course of the morning had deserted him entirely. He seemed more tired, quieter and oddly on edge. Jack alternated between giving him space and sticking closer than usual, unsure of which approach to take. It didn't seem to matter: regardless of what he did, David remained quiet and short.

"You _sure _you'se all right?" Jack asked for what felt like the hundredth time as David silently divided their money on the back of a haycart.

David pushed a pile of coins across to Jack. "Yes. I'll be fine once I've had some sleep."

Jack scooped his pile closer, fingers trailing absently through it. "Okay," he said dubiously.

* * *

"You'se nervous as a rabbit, Cowboy," Racetrack accused the next morning as Jack bounced on his toes and craned his neck to check the gate again.

"Least I don't got a face like one," Jack retorted. Race grinned good-naturedly and Jack twitched a smile despite himself. "It's just Dave again," he admitted, swinging himself down to sit on the office steps beside Race. "Ain't like him to be late twice."

"He looked pretty ragged yesterday," Blink said, dropping down between them, sixty papes in his lap. "He might've decided to stay home today. I s'pose Les ain't _really_ sick, Jack?"

"Maybe," Jack said. "I dunno, Dave wouldn't tell me anythin'."

"Ain't like you couldn't find out," Race pointed out. "Dave lives pretty close. If he don't show up, you could just go over."

The thought had occurred to Jack, but had been rejected in deference to a barely-acknowledged fear of out-staying his welcome at the Jacobses'. "I dunno that there's call for that. It ain't really my—"

"Ain't your business?" Crutchy asked, passing behind them. "Course it is, it's all of ours. They'se our friends, ain't they?" He poked Race in the back with his crutch and hobbled off, chuckling as Race rounded on the unluckily nearby Skittery.

"_I'd_ be easier if someone went over," said soft-hearted Mush over the sound of Skittery fighting Race off with his cane. Jack felt gratitude spike within him for the excuse.

"Between the morning and afternoon papes, then," he decided.

David never appeared, and so at lunchtime Jack duly turned north for Broome Street. It was Sarah he saw first when he crested the fire escape. She was lying in her bed by the window, her pretty face flushed with fever and framed by a damp tangle of hair. Her eyes were closed, but Jack thought it likely she was awake: she moved uncomfortably every moment or so as though she could not find an easy position, and pressed the handkerchief in her hand to her mouth to muffle harsh coughs. Across the room, Esther Jacobs tended to Les, who looked very small and miserable in the big bed, shivering and tossing each way and whimpering like a hurt puppy. David and his father were invisible, but Jack could hear talking from the direction of David's parents' room: Mayer's voice, weak and hoarse and punctuated with coughing.

Les alone being ill might not have been enough to explain David's absence, but more than half his family—well, Jack understood now. He watched for a moment longer outside, wondering if there was anything he could do, until deciding in his helpless ignorance of illness that there probably wasn't. He turned to creep away again, but a quiet voice, husky with coughing, arrested him in his tracks.

"Is that you, Jack?"

He turned around to see Sarah looking at him with tired brown eyes, though she did her best to smile.

"You—haven't caught us—at our best," she went on, breaking off every word or so to cough. She looked rueful. "I'm sorry. Have you come—looking for David?"

"He didn't show up to work this mornin', that's all." Jack crouched down to lean his elbows on the windowsill and talk to her at eye level. "Said yesterday that Les was sick; I didn't realise that you all was…anyway, um. How're you feelin'?"

"Sorry for myself," Sarah admitted, pushing her damp hair back from her forehead with a hand that shivered. "But it's—not so bad. Poor Les and Papa are—having the worst of it—I think." She coughed badly then, the sound dry and painful, and sank back against her pillow, clutching her handkerchief over her mouth. "Excuse me," she mumbled.

"Ain't nothin' to excuse," Jack said rather uselessly, caught halfway between wanting to help her and uncertain of the propriety of it. He settled for asking vaguely: "Is there anythin' I can do for you to ease you a bit?"

Sarah smiled at him behind the handkerchief, the expression crinkling the corners of her eyes. Even flushed and sick, with eyes and nose red-raw, Jack thought distractedly how very pretty she was. Nothing much further had ever come between them: after the strike, Mayer and Esther had murmured the words _too young_, and Jack, though disappointed, had not been keen to risk their friendship by pushing matters. Things were easy between him and Sarah now; _like a sister_, he might say, except for the moments like these, when he found himself looking at her the way her brothers never did.

Her voice was warm. "You're doing fine—just as you are."

They both glanced up then as David emerged from his parents' room. He only raised an eyebrow when he saw Jack at the window, looking rather unsurprised on the whole. He picked his way across the room towards them, pausing briefly first with Les and his mother, and then Sarah. "You're all right?" he asked her, putting the back of his hand against her forehead.

"I really—think I'm—getting better."

"Hm," David said, in the same tone he used when Jack tried to put something past him. He squeezed out a cloth from a basin beside the bed for Sarah to sponge her face with.

Sarah coughed her way through a chuckle and gave him a little push. "All right, I'll sleep. You go—talk to Jack."

David took back the cloth, while Sarah gave Jack a final smile and turned away from the window to cuddle down against her pillow. David fussed around her a little longer, straightening her blankets, tidying the table; then climbed through the window to join Jack on the landing.

He squinted against the midday sun. "You're probably going to catch it too now, you know."

"Doubt it. Don't usually get sick."

"Famous last words," David predicted dryly, though he didn't put any effort into it. "I hope you're right; you'd be a horrible invalid. Sorry I didn't show up this morning. It's been—busy."

"I see that." Jack nudged David's elbow: sympathy and question together. "How long has this been goin' on for?"

David turned around to lean back against the railing, facing the inside of the apartment. "Sarah was sick first a few days ago. Maybe from one of the ladies she sews for. Then Les the night before last, and Papa came down with it yesterday."

"It's the right time of year for the grippe," Jack said, uncertain if that was any comfort or not. Influenza was an unpredictable beast: usually merely unpleasant, but every winter the papes reported that it had carried off a few more people. Three years ago, the Lodging House had come down badly, and the disease had claimed two of the boys. "Have you had the doctor?"

David shook his head, and did not have to explain any further about the difficulties of paying for one. "Mama's nursed us through everything," he said. "We'll manage."

Jack watched him, troubled, but couldn't think of anything better to say than: "Okay."

"I'll be back at work tomorrow," David said, clearly making an effort to speak normally. "It was only that Les was so sick this morning. He's doing better now."

Jack let his gaze slide across to where Esther was still ineffectively trying to soothe the fretting child, over Les' bright eyes and clutching hands, but only said again: "Okay."

After another moment, David said quietly, "Thanks for coming."

Jack reached across and silently patted his shoulder.

* * *

The next two days might have been the most unpleasant ones that Jack had spent over the course of his friendship with David. People dealt with worry and exhaustion in different ways: some might withdraw into themselves, some might turn to alcohol and tobacco, and bouts of unusual irritability could plague even the sunniest of natures. David, despite clearly doing his best to fight against it, was of the latter group—and was an especially bad representative, handicapped by _not _being particularly sunny by nature. The least thing made him snap. Jack, though torn with sympathy and genuinely wanting to help, somehow only made it worse, unable to think of anything but especially inane things to say whenever they were together.

They fought about something trivial towards the end of the second day (Jack wasn't able to remember the details later, only that David had become more and more cutting as it escalated and Jack had finally snapped back that David needn't think he was _better_), and now they were both white and silent as they reached the corner they usually separated at. David started silently dumping pennies into Jack's bag, the coins jangling angrily together as they jostled to the bottom.

Jack made a final effort as David kept counting, trying very hard not to think about how much he wanted to _shake _David right now. "I know you'se worried and tired," he began, thinking he did very well to nearly keep the irritation out of his voice.

David managed a perfunctory nod as he counted under his breath, apparently trying to make the same effort. "Yes, I am."

"So there's no hard feelings."

David twitched, but only said, "That's very good of you," and went back to counting.

Jack waited, but nothing further was forthcoming from David. "So we'se good?"

David's teeth came together in a little _click_ as he came up with the last handful of coins. He hissed: "If I say yes, will you _shut up_ for two seconds, so I don't keep on _losing count_?"

"Are you serious?" Jack demanded, staring as David took his bag and emptied it out on the street, coins bouncing everywhere. "You was nearly done, I don't care if it ain't exact—"

"_I_ care," David snapped. "Now _please shut up_, if you can manage it."

Seething, Jack stepped back. David picked through the coins until he had divided them into two exact piles, then scraped one of them into his own bag, and stood up.

"I allowed to speak now?" Jack asked with stinging politeness, unable to help himself.

"You will anyway."

Jack pinched his nose and counted to ten. Twice. "I think," he said, "that we're done talking for today."

"Good idea," said David, and stalked away.

* * *

"Who's stole my towel?" Jack demanded, searching through his bench in the bathroom as the Lodging House prepared for bed. "Can't anybody leave things where they belongs around here?"

"Look out, Jack's comin' for your crown," Boots murmured to Skittery across the room, shutting up promptly when Jack glared at him.

"It's right here," Race said, picking Jack's towel off its nail and quirking an eyebrow as Jack snatched it off him. "And don't take it out on Boots, we'se all gettin' a bit fed up with you tonight. What's the matter?"

"Dave's bein' a _jackass_." He threw his overshirt into a corner of the bathroom with about three times the force as was necessary.

To his credit, Race didn't let his Italian temper get the better of him. He said, quite coolly: "Dave's always been his own special sort of annoyin'. But you'se usually able to stand it."

Jack ignored him and stuck his head under the pump. The water was freezing tonight, and he emerged dripping and cold and more irritated than ever. Blink silently handed him the towel.

"He's worried about his folks," Mush said.

"I _know_ that," Jack bit out, rubbing his head vigorously all over. "He just keeps bitin' my head off every time—"

"Hey, we all know nobody beats the Mouth for hard words when he's cranky," Race cut in. "Goodness knows I could throttle him for it sometimes. But it don't happen often, an' right now it's only 'cause he's runnin' himself ragged takin' care of his folks. He the only one bringin' in money right now for the five of them?"

Jack stopped short. He'd known, of course, but he hadn't _thought_ of it like that.

"He is, ain't he?" Race asked shrewdly. "It's a lot for him to handle." `

"I reckon he don't get t'sleep much with all the coughin' back at home, too," Blink added.

"Looks like he ain't seen a bed in days," Crutchy agreed.

"Cut him some slack."

Jack sent Blink a meaning look. "I ain't got much more slack to cut."

"Then talk to him," Mush suggested. "Make sure he takes it easy."

"I told you, I'se tried..." He trailed off at the look on Mush's face. "What—_now_?"

Mush nodded. "Ain't nothing ever came good of leavin' a fight to fester. Least you'll have tried."

Jack said darkly, "I dunno as he'll be interested."

"Well, _we_ ain't interested in your crabby face," Race said with decision, "and we _is _interested in Dave and the kid's health. So you beat it, or we'll beat _you_."

It said a lot about Race that he nearly managed to make it sound like a genuine threat.

* * *

It turned out that the walk in the cool November air was actually the best tonic Jack could have taken. Jack might have put Santa Fe aside for now, but he still felt a yearning for space around him once in a while, needed the sense of clear air and quiet. Manhattan at ten o'clock at night wasn't exactly a wind-swept plain, but the dark, near-empty streets were close enough, and he found that the further he walked, the more his irritation with David melted away. By the time he reached the block of tenements the Jacobses lived in, he was almost feeling kindly towards him again.

He climbed the fire escape quietly, taking the final flight especially gently when he saw that the windows were dark. When he reached them, he found that only a single lamp was burning: by Les' bed, where David was curled up with his small shivering brother cradled in his arms, humming a tune that Jack only barely remembered from his own childhood. Les's face was still flushed in the dim light, and even from here and over the sound of David's voice, Jack could hear the harshness in his breath, punctuated every so often by a fretful moan that stirred David to rock him a little closer.

David himself didn't appear much better. The relief of the lamp made the dark circles he'd been wearing around his eyes for the past few days even plainer, and he looked rather—limp, overall, as though exhaustion had turned his bones to butter. Still, he remained determinedly and uncomplainingly awake for Les' sake. Jack no longer wondered that David had so little patience during the day, when he had spent it all on his family at home.

Once Les dropped off into fitful sleep, David untangled himself gently from his brother and came to the bed by the window to check on Sarah. When he passed with the lamp, Jack saw Esther Jacobs asleep beside Sarah, her pretty fair hair loose around a face that looked just as tired as David's.

"You'se gotta sleep sometime too, you know," Jack commented quietly as David passed the window, instantly regretting it as David started, still carrying the lamp, and very nearly missed spilling hot oil over Sarah. "Sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"Jack?" Despite his evident surprise, David voice sounded dull and raspy, as though he'd been using it too much. At least it wasn't absolutely hostile, like the last time Jack had heard it. "What are you doing here?"

Jack thought about making a flippant remark, but decided not to push his luck. "I came to see how everybody was doin'."

David glanced around the apartment and shrugged. "Much the same. Is that all?"

Jack knew a brush-off when he heard one, but David wasn't getting off that easy. He threw his legs over the windowsill and sat on the ledge. David, seeing that he wasn't going anywhere, sighed and turned back to Sarah. Once he seemed satisfied, he picked up the lamp again and shuffled over to Jack.

"What do you want?"

"Like I said, I wanted to see how everyone was doin'," Jack said, eyeing him. David didn't just look tired; he looked worn out and _thin_, and Jack wondered how much he'd had to eat lately. "Which includes you. You—" He paused, and went on charitably, "You ain't been yourself."

"I'm fine," David said shortly.

"You know it won't do your family any good if you burn yourself out lookin' after them."

A flicker of today's irritation glinted in David's eyes. "I don't exactly have a choice, Jack."

"Just take a coupla hours. It ain't gonna hurt them any."

"Les can't rest for long without somebody nearby. I'm taking it in turns with Mama."

Jack glanced at Esther's sleeping face, then back at David's. "Uh huh. When was your turn up?"

David blinked, now definitely annoyed. "I really don't see how that's any of your business."

"I really don't see how it _ain't. _Your ma won't thank you if you make yourself ill." He moved as if to enter the apartment. "_I'll_ wake her if you won't—"

David snapped into life, surging forward to cut him off. "_You will not_."

Jack, startled, stumbled out the window and fell onto the landing. David loomed in the window, glaring daggers. Jack righted himself. "Calm down, I wasn't really—"

"Don't you _ever _tell me what to do about my mother." David's voice was more furious than Jack had ever heard it, though he never let it rise above a whisper, still clearly mindful of the family behind him. "Don't you _ever_."

"I know how you'se feelin'—"

"You know how I feel?" David demanded incredulously. "About my mother? You don't know a thing about_ any_ mother."

A wave of something terrible and black rolled over Jack: old rage and grief, all the resentment of the past few days flooding back. He got to his feet, fists clenched.

"No," he spat, surprised by the venom in his voice. "I only watched mine _die_."

Horror warred with lingering fury in David's expression then, and he opened his mouth. But Jack never knew what he would have said, because just then a tired voice from Sarah's bed called:

"David?"

A moment later, Esther Jacobs came into the circle of light thrown by the lamp. She looked from her son to Jack and back again, taking in David's white face and Jack's clenched fists. But instead of asking any questions, she put an arm around David, drawing him close for a moment

"Go and lie down," she said, voice gentle but very firm. "I'll sit with Les."

David shook his head. "No, I—"

"Go and lie down," Esther said again, quietly determined, and David wilted. She transferred her attention to Jack, equally firm. "You'll stay the night, of course."

Her blue eyes brooked no argument; otherwise Jack might have refused. He nodded, movement a jerk.

"None of the mattresses are clean, but I'll make you up a bed—"

"Don't trouble, ma'am. I'll sleep up on the roof."

Esther looked dismayed. "It's cold tonight."

"I'd rather the roof," he said shortly, and Esther chose her battle and gave in.

He took the cushion and blankets Esther pressed on him, avoiding David the whole while, and hauled himself up the fire escape.

* * *

The angry burn didn't last long after he reached the roof, and when it passed, Jack found that three blankets were not quite enough to shut out the nip in the November air. He was no stranger to uncomfortable nights, but the Lodging House, dry and solid and full of the heat of a hundred boys, had spoiled him lately. Esther Jacobs would certainly give him more blankets if he asked, or he could swallow his pride and sleep inside the apartment, but Jack set his jaw stubbornly against either idea.

At least it was a still coldness; the cutting winds that had blasted New York back in the February blizzards would have been a different matter entirely. He tipped the table on its side against one corner of the half-wall, wrapped himself in all three blankets in its shelter, and shivered himself to sleep.

He slept better than might have been expected, waking hours later just before dawn, rather warmer than he'd fallen asleep. Groggily, he investigated and found he was now swathed in five blankets instead of three. Poor with mornings at the best of times, it took him a good minute of staring around before seeing David in another corner, dead asleep under his own pile of blankets.

Still dressed in the rumpled clothes he'd worn yesterday, he looked better already for the handful of hours of sleep. The lines had worked themselves out of his face, the shadows lighter around his eyes. Curled up and fast asleep, he looked rather young. Jack, pulling himself fully awake and gathering up his blankets, found he couldn't muster up any real ire towards him anymore.

"Is it morning?"

Jack turned, foot on the first stair. David blinked at him with bleary eyes.

"Just about," Jack said, pausing uncertainly. "You allergic to your bed?"

"Couldn't sleep down there with all the coughing," David said, cracking his stiff neck and still looking a bit fuddled with sleep. Alertness arrived an instant later, with the memories of last night. His eyes flew open wide almost comically, as he stared up at Jack, face flushing a deep, remorseful red. "I—Jack—"

He looked so unhappy that it would have taken a much harder heart than Jack's not to forgive him. Jack dropped his blankets next to David and sat on them, setting his back against the half-wall. "We done fightin' with each other, do you think?"

David's face was still red. "Yes. Yes, okay." He paused, biting his lip. "I've been pretty awful, haven't I?"

"Awful?" Jack said, trying for light and missing the mark a little. "You oughta take some lessons from Race."

David refused to smile, and he didn't meet Jack's eyes either. "I'm sorry. I know how you feel about—having a family, and everything—and all you were trying to do was help, and…" He trailed off, unusually inarticulate.

"Hey," Jack said quietly, and said it again until David finally looked at him. "You don't need to tell me what it's like to say things you don't mean when you're angry. Specially when it's about somethin' you can't do nothin' about. It ain't like I've always been a saint."

David twitched the way he did whenever Jack's time as a scab was brought up, however obliquely, but said, "That was different."

Jack shrugged. "I think it's close enough. Ain't the point, anyway. What I mean is you got over that, and I wasn't born with paper-thin skin neither. I mean it, Dave. It's okay."

David said, voice quiet: "I'm sorry about your mother."

Jack had been expecting it, but his breath still hitched in his throat. "It was a long time ago," he said, when he could trust his voice.

"Do you want to talk about her?" asked David hesitantly.

Jack leaned his head back against the wall for a moment, fighting a crowd of long-buried memories. "Ain't much to tell," he said at last, swallowing past the thickness in his throat. "My pop cleared out before I properly remember him. It was just me and her, growin' up. She was young, not more'n eighteen, I think, when I was born. We never had much, but we was happy enough. Sang me songs about cowboys and Santa Fe."

"What happened?"

"Typhoid," Jack said bluntly, unable and unwilling to find nice words to dress it up. He paused and took a few careful breaths, blinking the sting from his eyes. "It was quick, at least."

"How old were you?"

"Eight."

"I'm sorry," David said again, more quietly.

"Ain't your fault," Jack said, and shrugged as though he told everybody about his mother, when really the last time he'd let himself properly think about her was the day she was buried in a pauper's plot. "Wasn't nothin' nobody could've done."

"I know," David said, and suddenly, just like that, everything between them felt mended again. "That's why I'm sorry."

The sun leapt up over the horizon just then, a welcome interruption, and they both fell silent as it climbed the sky. The first rays cut through the air, turning it pink and golden, twining hypnotic patterns in the drifting smog. Jack, watching it, felt more peaceful with every minute, like the last few days had never happened. Just another morning, except he was here instead of clawing himself out of bed along with the rest of the Lodging House. The papes would be printing up now, he mused drowsily, ready for the morning distribution; he'd have to get a move on in a minute—

He sat up suddenly, fully awake, mind whirring.

"Hm?" David mumbled, already halfway back to sleep.

Jack elbowed him, too alight with inspiration to be thoughtful. "Wake up a second," he ordered, barrelling on without pause as David fought back to consciousness and tried to look attentive. "I've got an idea how to fix it all. You ain't gonna like it, but you don't get to argue. Here it is: I'se gonna sell for the both of us, and you'se gonna stay here and help your ma."

David blinked at him until his meaning set in. He jolted into full wakefulness. "No," he said firmly. "Absolutely not. I can't take money I didn't earn."

"We'se partners," Jack said inexorably, full of purpose now. "We shook on it. You'se entitled to half of what the both of us sells, and if only one of us is working, you'se still entitled. That's how partners work."

"That's not—all right, we'll talk about that later," David said, clearly unequal to the novel challenge of dealing with a _logical_ Jack at this time of morning. "That's only part of it. I mean, you couldn't do it. You wouldn't be able to make enough. It's hard enough when Les and I are _both_ selling—"

"Yeah, but you ain't Jack Kelly," Jack cut in, and grinned at the look on David's face. "It ain't conceited to know what you'se good at, Dave. D'you think they told you I was the best for the exercise? I can move all the papes I want if I put my mind to it. You take care of your family, and I'll take care of the papes."

"No," David said again, obstinately.

"Thought we weren't gonna fight—?" Jack asked, maybe a bit unfairly. David winced and Jack took the advantage, bumping David's shoulder with his own. "Swallow your pride, Dave. Let me help."

David was silent for a moment, which was an improvement on flat refusal. "If I agree, we have to change the terms. Seventy-thirty."

Jack grinned, glimpsing victory. "That don't sound fair, when I'se doin' all the work."

"You know what I meant. Seventy-thirty, Jack."

Jack shook his head. "Nothin' doin'. Fifty-fifty, same as always. Save us both some time and give in, Dave, you ain't never been good at bargainin'."

"Seventy-thirty."

"Now you'se just bein' irritatin'," Jack said airily, and got to his feet. "Ain't got time for this anyway, I'se got papes to sell."

David scrambled up beside him, catching at the half-wall as he teetered a little, legs unsteady with sleep and the sudden rising. Jack reached out to stabilize him, closing a hand over his shoulder. David met his eyes unhappily, and Jack sobered.

"I know you hate feelin' like you owe people," he said, speaking seriously. "So don't think about it like that. This is just a favour, between friends. You'd do the same for me."

David was silent for a long moment. "Maybe I could live with that," he said quietly.

Jack squeezed his shoulder and held out a hand. "Deal?"

With a very little smile, David spat in his. He shook. "Deal."

* * *

Things didn't immediately become perfect from then, but they improved, though not without difficulties. For his part, Jack had no illusions about the difference between selling for three and selling for one. Two hundred papes was their ordinary daily sale; but the trouble in moving that number wasn't necessarily so much about energy or ingenuity as it was about simple _time_. Most papes sold within the first hour of distribution; after that, anybody who wanted a pape already had one, and the simple fact was that three boys were able to cover ground far more efficiently in that narrow window than one alone.

Les—small and cute and able to cajole sales from people who wouldn't ordinarily buy them—had been Jack's trump card for when the first rush was over. Now, without a sweet little kid fronting for him, Jack was falling back on rusty skills to coax new buyers.

He _was _the best, though: quick on his feet and clever with the news, and if his legs ached with walking and his throat felt raw with shouting by the end of every round—well, that was a small price to pay for how it felt when he dropped off the bag of coins at the Jacobses' every night. The strike had given Jack a taste for what it was like to be part of something bigger than himself, and even if this was not so broad-scale, the notion that he was making a difference kept him warm on the walk home.

And maybe there was a little more in the bag every day than there should be; maybe Jack had enlisted Specs' help to calculate about how much the Jacobses probably needed to live on, and maybe Jack robbed his own half of the earnings to make up the difference. At least, David suspected such was the case from the start. But when he tried to make Jack let him do the dividing to make sure it was fair, Jack would just rattle on cheerfully about all the money he might already have spent that day; and then, when David was too busy feeling guilty about everything all over again even to call him out for lying, Jack would finish him off by sauntering over to Les' bed to tell him a story. (David was far too worried about what Les was learning to remember about the money by the time Jack was done, and so Jack got a good laugh as well as his own way. It worked very well.)

Of course, to accommodate his reduced income, there were some small sacrifices to be made. Jack ate plainly, cut out cigarettes and Irving Hall. It made for a duller life rather than a hard one, but it might have been worse if the newsies hadn't all caught on quite as quickly. Suddenly Kloppman was waiving Jack's lodging fee for the week in return for a job Jack was certain he'd never done; Racetrack was enticing Jack into a game of craps that he promptly lost (looking clearly conflicted about his reputation the whole while); Mush and Blink were always buying more food than they needed and demanding that Jack help them eat it. And Crutchy, who had less to live on than many of the others, caught Jack one morning to give him the box of medicines that he'd collected over the years.

"Them charity people is always givin' 'em to me," he told Jack. "They'se well-meanin', I suppose, though you'd think they could tell the difference 'tween a crip with nothin' else wrong with him and a kid dyin' of consumption or the palsy or what. I ain't got no use for 'em, anyhow. I dunno that they'll do Davey's family any good, but s'worth a try."

When Jack carried them over to the Jacobses', Esther laughed over the bottles and then cried a little, and made Jack take back a pair of warm mittens in Crutchy's size.

The ill Jacobses improved gradually. The papes were reporting that this year's strain of influenza was a worse one than usual, but by the weekend, Sarah was sitting up and attempting to finish some of her overdue sewing. Mayer, too, had forced himself from bed as soon as he could stand, and while the fevers had left him too tired to be much use, he could read to Les, and take a little of the strain off his wife and son.

Jack, meanwhile, burned with virtue, and only very occasionally thought that he might be rather relieved when the need for virtue was over.

* * *

Ten days after Les had fallen ill, Jack turned in the gates of the distribution office for the _Evening World_ to find David sitting on the steps, a pile of papes already beside him.

"Les' fever has broken," he said, forestalling Jack's question. "And Sarah's up and walking around."

Jack didn't even try to restrain his grin, swinging himself down next to David. "So you're back?"

David nodded, and—rather awkwardly—patted the papes by his side. "I guess I'll sell tonight? Give you a break."

"None of your cheek," Jack retorted, too cheerful to make his mock-affront sound remotely genuine. "I don't let nobody cast aspersions on my sellin'. Give 'em here, Dave, before I decides I was doin' better on my own."

David, smiling in spite of himself, complied. Then Blink and Mush came through the gates and let out a dual yell of delight as they caught sight of him, which only marked the start of a perfect slew of backslaps and well-meant insults and inquiries about Les as the rest of the boys surged in. David, the whole while, looked very pleased—if a little bemused—by the notion that he had been missed.

"Just ain't been the same," Crutchy said, beaming, before he limped off to buy his thirty papes.

Jack, who hadn't stopped grinning, agreed. "It sure ain't."

"Hasn't," David murmured automatically, and shot an apologetic look at Jack when he realised it. "I'm going to start thinking before I speak."

Jack laughed and gave David a push. "Where'd be the fun in that?"

"Maybe I wouldn't offend Spot every time I talked to him."

"Where'd be the fun in _that_?"

"Seriously, Jack," David said, and swivelled so they were facing each other. His face was solemn, sincere, and terribly grateful. "Thank you. Maybe one day I'll make it up to you."

Jack just grinned wider, flinging an easy arm around David's shoulders and using it to propel him through the gates. "Time to start earnin' your bread, Davey. The papes ain't gonna sell themselves."

* * *

_Note: If anybody's remotely interested, the Molineux trial Jack is so chipper about refers to the case of Roland Molineux, who was charged with fatally poisoning his aunt in 1898. His first trial began in in November 1899 and resulted in a conviction, but he was later acquitted at a second trial in 1901. (It was actually a pretty influential trial, legally, but that's neither here nor there.)_

* * *

**A/N: **Thank you for reading! :) (Poor David; next time, I won't make him suffer or be so awful!)


End file.
